


Soul Mates

by firenewt



Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 00:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenewt/pseuds/firenewt
Summary: Turks live in the shadows and are basically predators. But maybe the right person can balance, if not banish, the dark, at least for a little while.





	Soul Mates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Turk Week 2018, Day 5. The prompt was "secrets".  
> I like to read this accompanied by "Chevaliers de Sangreal" by Hans Zimmer (the story and the music fit well and are about the same length of four minutes). :)  
> Inspired by scenes from an RP, and by the song "Tell Me Now" from the King Arthur soundtrack. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Thanks to Square Enix for letting me play in their world.

In a small snug house in a deep wood lived a woman. She lived there alone but was not lonely. Every day she walked among the trees, slipping through them silently, barefoot on the old fallen leaves. She drank dew and danced in the rain and shared the wild raspberries with the birds. At night she slept on a Jumping fur in front of the fire and dreamed of stars and sparks and bits of music she couldn’t quite remember.

Sometimes she would make her way to the edge of the wood, where the trees gave way to fields and meadowlarks swooped and sang against the clear blue sky. She would stand under the last tree and turn her face to the sun, basking in its heat, until the shadows called her back.

Now and then, men would venture into the wood. There was no road but they dared each other, dared themselves, to make it back out again. The woman would follow them as they walked as fast as they could, staring and startling at every rustle of a leaf and every shift of a branch. To them, the shadows were cold, confusing them and pulling them into the unknown.

If a man caught her eye, the woman would join him, sidling up alongside, touching his arm, smiling sweetly and offering a place to stay for the night, as surely he would not make it through the wood before dark and who knew what dangers lurked once the light was gone. Always the man accepted, lulled by her soft voice and amber eyes and the promise of a hot meal.

As if in a dream he would follow her and as the night grew deep and the fire crackled, she would sit beside him on the thick white pelt and comb out her hair, humming softly as the knots and tangles loosened. By the time the comb ran smoothly from the crown of her head to the ends of her tresses, her guest would be asleep. In slumber the body lets its tight grip on the soul ease, and it is free to explore other realms. But each time, the woman’s humming song beckoned that essence to her, and she combed it from the ether around her and into her hair, capturing it for all time.

In the morning the fire would be dead and the traveler gone, and the woman would shake the ash from the fur and smile at her reflection in the stream.

One day she heard a high clear sound in the distance. It soared and climbed and dipped like the birds over the fields. Curious, she went to see what it was, and found a man in the wood. That in itself was not so remarkable, but this man was unlike the others who had come through the trees. This man walked tall and straight, his bare arms swinging, and his head up, and he was whistling a tune as he went. No furtive darting for him. No nervous panting as the shadows crept closer. Instead his face was clear and open and the dark seemed to fall away from him, leaving the sun filtering through the leaves to dapple his fiery hair. 

Of course the woman followed him. He glanced in her direction, with eyes the colour of the summer sky and a smile pulling at his lips, but continued to stroll along, confident and unconcerned. When she fell into step with him and touched his arm, she could feel the warmth radiating from him, as if he had soaked up all the sun’s light and heat and had brought it like a torch into her forest. 

He accepted her invitation to stay the night. How could he not? Yet she knew he accepted not from fear of being benighted under the trees, but with the courtesy of one politely accepting an offer of hospitality.

That night, he lay propped on his elbow on the fur in front of the fire and watched her combing her hair. He sleepily smiled at her again, and reached to pick up a loose strand that had fallen near him. Her humming faltered for a second as he lay back; he wound the strand around his finger and closed his fist on it, as his eyes followed suit. 

The woman continued her combing and her soft song as, bit by bit, the man’s breathing deepened and slowed, and, bit by bit, his soul slipped loose until her hair hung smooth and his essence enveloped her. 

But this time, this time was different. Instead of the cold shadows closing in, the sunshine of his soul pushed them back and back, filling her with heat and light and beckoning her to follow him. The coil of his call wound around her heart, as her hair had circled his finger, and the comb fell from her hand as she reached out into the air, reached toward those bright blue eyes and that easy smile.

And in the morning the little house was empty. The door stood half open and the sun streamed in across the floor and the breeze blew ashes into the air where they swirled together before floating out and away.


End file.
